


Code of Ethics

by junes_discotheque



Series: kill your addiction [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Facials, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Prostitution, QPQVerse, Slurs, Spanking, sin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 08:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6322351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junes_discotheque/pseuds/junes_discotheque
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In the aftermath of hearing the Hamilton-Washington recordings, and with the threat of a scandal breathing down his neck, Thomas Jefferson hires an escort.</p><p>As one does.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Code of Ethics

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Quid Pro Quo](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5880157) by [rillrill](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rillrill/pseuds/rillrill). 



Contrary to popular belief, there’s no such thing as a Hooker Code of Ethics. It’s a pretty lie D.C. escorts tell their more  _ visible  _ clients, in order to get them to calm their shit long enough to complete their business and then to come back again. But it doesn’t actually  _ exist.  _ Sure, most of them aren’t stupid enough to leak anything--mostly because that would only screw themselves--but that doesn’t mean they don’t  _ talk. _

Eric’s never really cared for gossip. Oh, sure, he’ll listen raptly to any stories other escorts want to tell, but he keeps his own to himself. It’s gotten him something as a reputation as a particularly tight vault, one with a spectacularly uncanny ability to pick out which repressed Republicans are most likely to wind up in his book, and it’s done him well in landing some of the highest profile clients in the business.

So, when he gets the call from his “manager” ( _ “For the last time, Eric, I’m not your goddamn pimp” _ ) telling him Senator Thomas Fucking Jefferson has booked him at nine p.m. on Wednesday, the only real surprise is that it took  _ this long. _

-

Eric likes to think of himself as something of a specialist when it comes to Republicans.

As much as one can be, anyway. There’s not exactly a script for gay sex with repressed homophobes. Half of them want to fuck him; the other half want to be fucked; and absolutely none of them want it the same way. None of them ever have condoms or lube, either--not that he’d trust a client’s supplies, but usually when he fucks a more  _ upfront  _ gay, they at least offer. 

He usually packs a laptop case with the basics, plus a change of clothes (he learned that the hard way, after a client freaked and locked him--still completely naked--out of the hotel room. He’d had to catch a cab in a hotel bathrobe). He also wears a plug for the full afternoon beforehand; if he’s going to get fucked tonight, the likelihood Jefferson’s going to bother with prep is approximately zero. He can, at this point, take it with minimal or no prep, but it’s not exactly his most favorite thing in the world.

It’s good enough, he figures. Jefferson’s always pegged him as a bit of a freak, but he’s also a  _ repressed  _ freak, so he doubts anything crazy’s going to happen.

He hopes, anyway.

There are rumors starting to swirl.

-

One of the weirdest parts of the job, for Eric, is seeing his clients on the news.

For the most part, he avoids C-SPAN and the evening cable pundits. He has Google News alerts for some of his clients, and skims the CNN home page in the morning, and does his homework if either of them pop up anything concerning. He knows a lot of people in his line of work don’t like to know who their clients are, but Eric finds it helps. If someone just got a major promotion or watched their bill get defeated, it’s going to affect their mood, and Eric would rather not walk into emotionally-charged appointments unprepared.

Which is how he knows that Senator Jefferson is very possibly facing corruption allegations. Sure, right now, it’s all blogs of dubious reputation, but he’s been at this long enough to know that sooner or later someone with some actual clout is going to dig something up.

So, given that, Eric’s not entirely surprised Jefferson’s chosen  _ now  _ to indulge his bicuriosity, or whatever. If he’s going down, why not go down hard? It won’t be the first time.

Eric shows up to the hotel half an hour early and gives the manager on duty his name, room number, and timetable. Not that he actually thinks it makes him safer, but he’s always erred on the side of caution, and the managers of D.C. hotels have figured out that it’s much less of a headache if they play nice with the city’s hookers.

He’s still a little early getting up to the room, but it’s always better to show up before the client. Nothing’s more awkward--and dangerous--than keeping a repressed asshole waiting. He expects the room to be empty when he gets there.

He’s wrong.

-

Eric’s slammed bodily against the door the second he walks in, a hard, firm body pressed against him in the dark.

“You’re late,” the Senator drawls in his ear. He’s not. He doesn’t say that, though; he’s not  _ stupid. _

“I apologize,” he says instead. The Senator makes an angry hissing noise. “Sir,” Eric adds. That seems to satisfy him, because he lets go, stepping away with an extra shove to Eric’s shoulder. Eric slides his hand up the wall and flips on the light.

Jefferson’s hair is loose, curls frizzing around his head. He’s wearing a plain white dress shirt with the top two buttons undone, tucked into expensive black slacks, and he’s trying to glare.  _ Trying  _ being the operative word here, because his eyes are smudged with red shadows and his right hand is fidgeting by his leg and he looks shocked and oddly vulnerable.

For about half a second.

“Get on your knees, faggot.”

Eric isn’t easily shocked, but  _ that  _ throws him. Everything he’d seen of Jefferson had him pegged as a total bottom. 

“Are you fucking listening?” Jefferson steps forward and slaps Eric across the face.  _ Hard.  _ Eric’s been slapped before, but the shock of it makes him yelp. “Are you fucking stupid? Get on your fucking knees, whore.”

He takes a deep breath. He can handle this--he’s handled worse--and drops to the floor. Jefferson smirks at him.

“That’s right,” he mutters. “At my feet, where  _ all of you… _ ” He trails off. Grabs his crotch and rubs it, stepping close enough that if Eric leans forward slightly he’d be mouthing at the Senator’s pants. “Bet you’re fucking gagging for it.”

Eric just stares at him. He’s not asking Eric to beg--not yet--and he’s not asking Eric to fight back. Eric’s not sure  _ what  _ he’s asking, which is a fucking novelty. But staring up at the Senator like this, he’s not… actually scared. Probably because Jefferson?

Jefferson’s  _ terrified. _

He barely manages not to laugh.

“Yeah, you fucking want it.” Jefferson’s awful smirk widens. He moves his other hand to undo the buttons on his shirt, slowly, rubbing his hand all over his chest and abs, and lets it fall to the floor. And yeah--Jefferson’s fucking  _ ripped,  _ perfectly defined pecs, eight-pack going all the way to his crotch, sharp hipbones that, on anyone else, Eric thinks he’d rather like to lick. Quite frankly, it’s the body of a guy who spends hours in front of a mirror, more concerned with the  _ aesthetic  _ of his body than the  _ principle  _ of healthy living. 

Most of the guys Eric knows who are like that are twinks (and, yeah, rentboys. All his friends are whores; so sue him).

“Open your fucking mouth.” Eric doesn’t roll his eyes. It’s a near thing. “Tell me how you want to choke on it.”

Eric fakes a deep, shuddering breath, bats his eyelashes up at Jefferson (which has the added benefit of stimulating his tear ducts, making his eyes all dewy). “Please, sir,” he simpers. “I wanna choke on your huge dick.”

Jefferson fucking moans at that. “Disgusting little faggot,” he growls, and finally unzips his pants and pulls out his cock.

The most shocking thing, to Eric, is that Jefferson’s cock is actually pretty decent. Good length, good thickness, nice and dark and red at the tip. The kind of cock he’d call  _ pretty,  _ if he were that kind of gay. Most guys who start in on the ‘beg for my giant dick’ routine are packing ugly little peckers under four inches.

Jefferson slides his hand--long fingers, Eric’s just noticing that, and he fucking hates that Jefferson’s this goddamn gorgeous, it’s fucking with his head--down the shaft of his dick. “Keep going,” he growls. “Tell me what you want, slut.”

Another deep breath. Another reminder to  _ don’t roll your goddamn eyes, Eric. _ “I want your cock in my throat. I want to be fucked by your huge, powerful prick, want you to use me like a filthy whore, like the dirty faggot slut I am,” Eric says. He can’t quite manage to put any feeling behind the words, spitting them out in an awkward monotone. Jefferson doesn’t seem to give a fuck--in fact, he moans louder, jacks his dick faster, seems to be getting off on Eric’s disdain.

“Fucking trash,” Jefferson spits out, and then  _ actually  _ spits, a giant glob landing on Eric’s cheek, and Eric doesn’t even try to hide the way his eyes widen in horror. Jefferson growls out a final  _ Jesus, fuck,  _ and comes all over Eric’s face.

-

Eric barely manages to grab his bag before Jefferson throws him out, followed by a wad of cash that kind of flutters haphazardly all over the hallway floor. Eric picks up the cash, counts it (all accounted for, plus an extra $100) and tucks it into his back pocket.

There’s half a pack of tissues in the bottom of his bag, for which he’s exceedingly grateful, because his face is still smeared with the Senator’s semen. He wipes his face in the elevator, then washes up in the lobby bathroom before returning his keycard to the front desk.

He gets an Uber back to his apartment.

-

It goes on like that for about a month. A few times a week, his manager informs him Jefferson’s booked him (usually on short notice, which pisses him off) and Eric gets to spend twenty minutes kneeling on the floor of a hotel room while Jefferson sneers insults and jerks off onto his face.

About three weeks in, he makes Eric call him  _ Daddy.  _ He makes Eric beg for Daddy’s cock, then gets off on denying him. Eric has all  _ kinds  _ of things to say about that one, but doesn’t.

At one point, he praises Eric for  _ “knowing your place, like a good girl”  _ and that one might be the fucking weirdest, except about a minute later he calls Eric  _ “princess” _ and yeah, something’s definitely going on here. 

He wasn’t wrong about Jefferson being the bottomiest bottom in the entire goddamn Legislature.

-

When he tells this story later, Eric won’t be able to remember exactly  _ how  _ they wound up in this position. He’ll be mostly sure that Jefferson never asked for it, and he’ll be equally sure that while his intuition is definitely good enough to pick up that he wanted it, he’s not suicidal enough to suggest it. 

No matter how it happened--it happens. Jefferson’s pants and silk briefs wind up around his ankles, he’s bent over Eric’s lap, and he’s making tiny, high, gasping noises every time Eric’s hand collides with his ass. His dark skin is starting to take on a faint, red tint, and Eric’s own palm is starting to smart. He really prefers implements if he’s going to do something like this, to save his own hand, but hey--he can deal with it.

Especially if it means he gets to give this arrogant sack of waste what’s been coming to him.

He doesn’t really lecture, isn’t sure if that’s supposed to be a part of this, but occasionally drops lines about ‘teach you some respect’ and ‘learn some manners’ and ‘not how you treat people’. Jefferson’s whimpering gets a little louder every time he does that, and Eric fucking  _ thrills.  _ Thinks maybe the whole disciplinarian thing is something he should get in on. Talk to his manager later, or something.

He lands a particularly hard swat on the underside of Jefferson’s ass. The man fucking  _ arches,  _ fucking  _ sobs,  _ and he hears a soft, broken,  _ “Please, Daddy,”  _ as Jefferson rubs his dick in between Eric’s thighs.

Eric’s grin threatens to split his face. Fucking  _ finally.  _

“Twenty more, baby,” Eric says, rubbing the Senator’s ass. “Can you count for me?”

Jefferson whines. Eric grabs at his hair, pulls his head up.

“Answer Daddy when he asks you a question,” he says calmly. Jefferson shudders.

“I can count,” he says. The arrogance isn’t quite beaten out of him, and Eric can hear the eyeroll in his voice. That’s fine; he has twenty swats to get the last of it.

“Good,” Eric says, and lands the first one, hard, right in the center of Jefferson’s ass.

It takes a few seconds but, finally, Jefferson breathes out a soft “One.”

Eric smirks.

-

“Ei--Eight--teen--” Jefferson chokes out. He’s fucking crying. Eric can feel his tears soaking into his pants. He thinks he might get them framed. Sell them on EBay. Jefferson’s entire career is teetering on a precipice. And he’s sobbing into Eric’s pants.

Eric gives him the next one at full strength, and the last right after. Jefferson doesn’t manage to count, but then, Eric expects that; what he  _ doesn’t  _ expect is Jefferson to arch his back, shove his cock into Eric’s lap, and come all over his pants.

Yeah. Definitely framing that shit.

-

He’s kicked out, cum drying on his pants, right after that. Cash in his pocket, bag on his shoulder, routine. For the first time, though, Eric doesn’t exactly like it. He may be just a hooker, but he knows how aftercare works, and he feels oddly guilty leaving Jefferson like this. The man makes his fucking skin crawl, but seeing him with his face wet with tears, rubbing at his spanked-sore ass, tugged at whatever fucks Eric has for the guy.

Irritatingly, he feels  _ responsible. _

He stares at the door a second longer, then takes the wad of cash out of his pocket and counts. 

Twice his rate.

Screw sympathy. Eric strips out of his pants in the hallway, carefully folds them, and changes into his spare jeans. He rides the elevator towards the lobby and heads for the bar. He wonders if Jefferson’s got it out of his system now, or if this is just the beginning. He’s annoyingly invested in where this is going, like a bad reality show where he’s the star, and he fucking hopes it’s not the end. If only for the money.

-

The news breaks.

Eric’s manager calls.


End file.
